When she was gone he sat down at the desk and took up his pen, and with an inanimate hand began to address one of his letters, wondering dumbly that such mere details as a street and number and a man's initials could rise to his memory at such a moment.
That evening, in the big drawing-room at the Marstons', General Sylvester sat down by his niece.
“You look tired,” he said. “I think you show it more than usual; being on one's feet all day is no little tax on the energy. By-the-way, we are invited to a big reception for next Wednesday evening at the Langleys'. It is given to some foreign statesman or other. I have the card somewhere. You must look your prettiest and wear the dandy gown I selected.”
“Why, it isn't for evening wear.” Margaret smiled faintly. “Besides, do you think we ought to stay as—long as that?”
“As long as that?” he exclaimed. “Are you really thinking of going home? Of course, it lies with you, dear. As far as I am personally concerned, it doesn't matter one way or the other. Say, little girl, are you really homesick?”
“I think I am, Uncle Tom.” She avoided his eyes, which were so solicitously bearing down on her from beneath their heavy brows. “I presume the novelty of this sort of thing soon wears off, and our home is so soothing and restful.”
“Ah, I smell a rat!” the General said, teasingly. “I forgot about that lonely bachelor neighbor of ours. We were to look after him, weren't we? Well, we'll go back, and you'll encourage him a little more, won't you?”
The girl shuddered, an irrepressible sob struggled up within her, and her head sank to her tightly clasped hands.
“Oh, how can you say such a thing?” she asked, under her breath. “I don't love him. I know I can never do so now, and to think of what you want is—horrible!” To the old man's utter bewilderment she rose, placed her handkerchief to her lips, and left the room.